Avengers readjustment
by Lucreace
Summary: Based on the 100 word challenge, this will feature a set of short stories based on a single word prompt. Most of them will centre around the Avengers and their lives.
1. 77 - Memories

During the day was not so bad. While the sun shone in the sky with its ever constant brightness, there was very little trouble at all. It seemed that during the day, Bucky was more than able to keep himself occupied and out of bother. The little place he now referred to as 'home' needed a lot of work doing to it and he was more than happy to have something to keep his hands and mind occupied. It turned out that earning to do DIY jobs, building the bed, putting up shelves and other seemingly menial tasks were a surprising source of pleasure for the former assassin.

It hadn't taken long for the place to be transformed from a small poke hole into something that might be called home. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, it wasn't a place most people would consider venturing into, however it was his. The first place he could call his own and he would be damned if anyone was going to take that away from him. The past did not come up to haunt him overly much and he was able to function as well as could be expected in a world that was still mostly unfamiliar.

The night told a completely different story.

Every night it was the same. He followed a routine, eating a simple dinner, showering and settling down to either watch something on the television or to read one of the books he had been given to help him adjust. Tonight was no different to the last few months. The book in his lap was great. Wanda had insisted that it was a modern classic and that he should waste no time in reading it. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets had seemed like nothing more than a kid's book when he opened it, however he quickly realised that she was right and he'd chewed through half the series in a matter of weeks.

No matter what he read however, the memories crept through.

This night, it was a job in Sweden, 1986.

23:13. The building he was hiding out in was damp, he could smell the mould growing on the walls, even now. The cold weather would have been a bother if not for the focus of the task ahead. There was no reason given for the task he had been given, no explanation; there never was. Just the words, the task and the mission. Light snow had begun to fall, no surprise there, it was the time of year for it after all.

23:15. The target was lingering outside the cinema, engaged in conversation with another couple. The detail was striking. Everything was as clear as it had been on the day. The two couples separated and went their separate ways. The Prime Minister of Sweden linked arms with his wife and led her off in the direction away from where he was hiding. Gun in hand, he moved on sure feet.

23:17. They paused to look at something in a shop window. Bucky turned his back, keeping the gun in front of him in case they caught him. There were no other people around and he was sticking to the darker spaces, the couple resumed their walk. The assassin resumed following, the calm assurance that he could do this setting in his mind.

23:19. Olof Palme and his wife paused and looked for traffic before beginning to cross the street. Bucky avoiding their gazes by looking in the very window they had done moments before. He took a deep breath, slowed his breathing. The sound of the snow echoed in his ears, the crunch of the snow underfoot of the target seemed louder than elephants. Time slowed.

23:21 Striding forward, purpose true. He approached the back of the Swedish Prime Minister. Rising the gun, aiming it at the centre of his back, he squeezed the trigger. The crack echoed. She screamed. Moving his arm, he aimed at her, fired turned and ran. Her screams echoing in his ears. The wide eyes imprinted in his mind effectively as any brainwashing.

His cries were what brought him back to the present. Sitting upright, heart thundering in his chest, sweat pouring down his chest, he drew in a shaking breath. Looking down at his hands he was surprised they were pale pink rather than bright red. Running a hand through soaked hair, he resisted the temptation to bury his head in those hands. No matter how hard he tried, he kept cycling back to those deeds. Always waking with someone lying in a pool of blood and him running, endless running and returning and the words, always the words echoing in his mind. Rising, he headed for the shower – the next part of this nightly ritual. There would be no more sleep for him this night.


	2. 70 - Bitter Silence

Moscow 1995 10:15pm

Glamourous locations were never high on the agenda in his line of work. Tonight was no exception to that. There rarely were. The building he was currently crouched in would no longer be a building in the morning. The condemned signs had been plastered all over the walls and boards, informing members of the public that they should stay away for their safety. He had ignored these warnings, ripped a hole large enough to get through and gone in anyway. The hole he shut once again, not wanting any attention. He had then moved off to find a suitable spot to wait. At least in here it was out of the softly falling snow.

The building was devoid of most signs of life. No carpet covered the floor, wallpaper, long since succumb to the damp infecting the building now peeled and crinkled on the wall like aged skin. The smell of damp was underpinned by stale piss, and the odd empty bottle loitered in the corners here and there. A small part of his mind registered that this had once been the home of tramps; he was probably going to be the last living soul to leave the building before it was destroyed.

The stairs were about as stable as he was.

Once on the third floor, he began the short set up process. The large gun he had been given for the job would not be coming back with him. It was screwed together within minutes, something he was able to do with his eyes shut – he had been made to on numerous occasions. His eyes then turned to the window. On this floor, they had not been boarded up. No one expected someone to enter the place from this height.

Pointing the barrel of the gun out the window, the rest on the ledge, he waited. His mind utterly clear, he watched the street below for the Target. It did not take long for him to appear. He would have just finished the live show of _Chaz Pik_. He had not been given a reason for this, just told what to do and when to do it. The Target crossed the street. The wind died, the snow ceased to matter. A quick look down the sight was all it took. Relaxing his face, he squeezed the trigger. There was no crack only a small thud, a clutched chest and a woman screaming.

Dropping the gun, he stood and headed back down the rickety stairs, far quicker than he had gone up. He no longer needed to worry about being silent; he needed to be out of there. The motorbike was hidden just behind the house; the vehicle was his way out. The something happened that The Winter Soldier did not anticipate.

Stood in his path was a small, gangly looking creature. Large brown eyes looked out from a gaunt face. The clothes the boy was wearing were little more than rags, there were holes in his shoes and marks on his face. This was a problem. It became clear that this child was using the house as a hidey hole, maybe for the night, maybe it had been on a more permanent basis. It wasn't for him to care about.

He regarded the dark eyes, watched as they flicked from his face to the hand gun at his hip. A frown flickered. "Hey!" the kid said. "Did you see what happened out there? Did you-" Before he could think, the gun was in his hand aimed right between his eyes. There were no more words to say. The kid's voice turned into a high pitch scream. He squeezed the trigger. Warmth splattered over his face and he was moving before the body was on the floor.

This time it was the sound of his own screams that brought him from sleep. Bathed in sweat, shivering with a heart pounding so rapidly he feared it might burst, he shut his mouth, leaving behind only bitter silence. Slowly, he took a shuddering breath, willing his mind to cease running so fast he was unable to keep up with it. There was a glass of water at the side of the bed, placed there for this reason and he reached for it. His hand shook, sending the glass to the floor with a crash. The thing shattered and he cursed, he'd deal with that later; right now he had something else on his mind. Something with large brown eyes and ragged clothes. Sighing, he knew this was just another thing in a long list of things to deal with. Problem was, he had no idea whether this one was a dream or a memory.


	3. 65 - A Moment in Time

Dallas, Texas, 1963. November 22.

They'd been planning this one for weeks, months even. The Mission was to eliminate the Target as it always was, however this time, he had been sent to the States. This time it wasn't a job based in Eastern Europe or on Russian soil, this was very different. It was also much more dangerous than many of the jobs he had done before; there would be more police, more secret service and more SHIELD agents around than any of the other jobs he had done before. He had been told to get in, do the job and get out as quickly as he could. They would handle the extraction when it was needed, they would deal with the aftermath regardless of the outcome. His was to make sure there was an outcome to deal with.

The school book depository was where he was currently crouched had been for most of the morning in fact. There had been a couple of spots suggested for the job but this one had been best. It was high up, allowing a better view of the street below. The sixth floor windows offered a perfect vantage point over the junction below. In less than an hour's time, the presidential motorcade would be driving through this area, bringing the Target well within range.

He had cleaned the machine, he'd had the time. The Snaiperskaya Vintovka Dragunova, or SVD was a semi-automatic rifle that he had used numerous times before; therefore he knew of its tendency to jam if it had not been looked after. The task came naturally to hands that had done this over a hundred times, maybe over a thousand. The machine was disassembled, cleaned and put back together within half an hour. Sure that it would now work as it was intended; he placed it next to the window on a stand, settled into the position and did what he did a lot of on these missions. He waited.

As the time approached, the street below began to fill with people. Tourists and residents alike gathered to see who had come to see their city. Barriers had been set up around the roads to prevent would be killers from getting to the beloved president. The irony of this tugged the corner of his mouth up into something akin to a smile.

The first thing he heard was the noise. Cheers from the masses below as the procession, which was taking the president to a special luncheon. Then the first car came around the corner and into view. There was no one in the vehicle he was interested in, however he did lean forward and look down the scope of the rifle. Everything was in place. The next car turned the corner. Not yet. He wanted to wait until it made the sharp left and was driving away from him before he took the shot.

Time seemed to slow. Calm descended and he became hyperaware of everything that was going on around him. The cool breeze that filtered through the open window, the pressure of the floor while he was leaning on his elbows, the way a leaf fell in front of the glass on the cool late autumn wind. Even the cool metal of the trigger under his right index finger, it all fell away to nothing until it was only him and the Target. It was just the two of them occupying this single moment in time.

The car passed the book depository and began pulling slowly away from him. Gently, he squeezed the trigger, crosshatch aimed on his forehead. The president chose that time to stand and wave at the crowd. The gun crashed hitting the hand, not the head, "ебать," he swore. Sliding the trigger back and shifting his aim, he focused once more.

The next shot did not miss.

He shot true. The gun cracked. The entire right side of the president's head exploded, sending a shower of blood and grey matter onto the upholstered interior of the open top car. He heard a woman scream and move onto the back of the car, he did not care about her. A third shot ensured the job was completely finished. The moment he saw the Target was down, he grabbed the gun, shouldered it and was on the move. The noise from the people below was deafening, they swarmed like ants, crawling and climbing, running and screaming to get away, or to get to their stricken president. Extraction was now his priority. Without hesitation or thought, he left the room, heading for the stairs.

Once on the fourth floor, he heard some sort of commotion coming from down there. The voices were raised, heated even and he knew he'd not be able to get out that way. Besides, he had a semi-automatic on his back and he looked as though he was carrying a small armoury – not the best for walking around and not getting noticed. Glancing out the window, he saw a roof a couple of floors down. That one was an easy decision.

Seconds later, he was on the roof and running, eager to get out of there and get away before someone looked his way. Keeping to the roofs, he leapt over a couple of alleys and kept going. HYDRA would fix the situation back there, they would find someone to take the fall, that or the police would. His job was done and he was on his way back to the base. They would want a full report!

Descending a ladder, he found a motorbike waiting; the red star giving it away as one of theirs. They must have known he would come this way. It started first time. The road had not yet been closed. Before he knew it, he was on his way out of Dallas to the designated meeting point. Once there, he could give his report and return back to base to await the next mission.


End file.
